


The Good of the One

by Ooze



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Friend's OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooze/pseuds/Ooze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't stay, and they both knew that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good of the One

He’d never expected her to take it well. Her reaction was foreseen, in fact, to a point. And though he prepared himself for this moment, he felt completely inadequate as he stood before her, watching her _crumble_. He would not allow an inch of himself to falter, to buckle under the tension, _under those woebegone eyes_.

And then she uttered his name in a ragged effort, her voice catching before the rest of her sentence could even leave her larynx. So much pain tipped the syllables, he could’ve _winced_ as he heard it touch his ears—but it really quite struck him when she collapsed, planting herself on the floor in a sopping mess of grief. If anything, Vergil assumed she would manage to _stand_ her ground; but, oh! how the reality of it all revealed itself to him before his frigid eyes. He wasn’t prepared for this: for seeing her fall, shriveled up, _because of him_.

And through her torment, as he’d allowed her to sit and lick her wounds, he offered an explanation; a brief, vague _“I have responsibilities”_ which he believed would somehow _help_ her. He shouldn’t have bothered. Nothing would satisfy her, he knew, aside from what he already _guessed_ she’d been wanting to hear. Turning back now would be a mistake. After all, this was bigger than the both of them—and, ultimately, it was for the benefit of both. But how could he stress that to her without making things _worse_? The hurt would only burn more intensely if he’d told her that it was… _care_.

Vergil’s concern for her had grown considerably by this point. And she knew that, didn’t she? Perhaps it was obvious, plain to see; alas, his emotions had worked against him, and he was well aware of their resurgence. Even now, as he observed her in uneasy silence, he felt his blackened heart weigh heavily in his chest cavity. Her whining and sniffling had been all that filtered into his ears, and such distress on her part was enough to _shame_ him. Torn as he was, however, he remained resolute in the face of another heart he’d begun breaking.

Was this his lot in life? To disappoint, to crush those who’d ever broken down the walls he’d always put up around him? History so cruelly repeated itself, it seemed, and it was hardly fair for either individuals involved. 

But this was necessary. 

Even when she turned away from his gaze, he felt this was necessary. When she rose again, it showed strength— _this was necessary_. She would recover. She was fortified, or made to be, and it would help her. She’d be foolish to let this upset beat her down. _Pain dies eventually_.

He was so patient, so forgiving despite how mercilessly he’d treated her. He stood among her, in the same space as her, with such audacity; it was wrong, perhaps, but he owed her at least that. To face her and what he’d wrought rather than flee from his mess. And even though she claimed she understood him, he knew that was far from the truth. Bianca couldn’t possibly place herself in his position, to empathize with him—she _wasn’t_ him, never would be. Whatever ran through his mind she could _only dream_ to pick apart. A noble attempt, maybe, on her part to offer acknowledgment, but it was nothing that would stop the raging torrent.

And she’d tried so hard to be brave, it almost made him proud. Everything they’d done together would not be forgotten, and in a way he hoped that it _would_. He would live on, knowing he’d formed a bond; knowing that he’d _laid bare_ his mind and soul so openly to the first person who showed an ounce of attention, of trust. And, foolishly or otherwise, he trusted her in return. It was almost a blind faith with which he revealed so much of himself, and she’d done quite the same with him. In a way, he didn’t want these memories. 

He shared things with her that he hadn’t even shared with his own brother. He openly showed care, concern, _affection_ ; they’d made love, he admitted fondness for her, a softness in his heart that had been denied to all else. How could a creature borne of an _angel_ turn his back on all that transpired between them? To behave as if none of it mattered, in the end; to hardly react, _unaffected_. His hollow reminded him, of course, that he was so much more a creature of hell than any other world. His black and crimson blood ruled over the divine. 

And yet he found himself so weak in front of the girl who so pleaded with him to change course. A fresh surge of tears fell from her eyes when she reunited her gaze with his own. This was supposed to be right, _fair_ , and yet…

“This is something I have to do. You can’t understand, and I don’t expect you to.”

Cold, callous, distant, indifferent.

“You don’t see it now, and, in fact, you may never come to see it at all: but this is for the good of the two, not just the one.”

Rational, cool, neutral, persuasive.

A dishonest truth was what he’d fed her. Although his intentions were halved, one selfish while the other owed to her well-being, he felt that whatever existed between them would endanger them the more it grew. _Love was dangerous_ , he knew; it was a hazard that blinded those unfortunate to experience it. In all wholehearted sincerity, he did not wish for Bianca to suffer for it. If he distanced himself from her, she wouldn’t have to go to through this—and later in life, the hurt would only damage her more. Better to spare her _now_. That was his belief, however flawed it might have sounded to her if he decided to let her in on his reasoning.

But doing so would only make things so much harder. Vergil so naively sought to prevent any more harm from touching her, and in turn, himself. He appeared so poised, but his freshly awakened emotions were roaring inside, making his blood swirl. But it was for the best, he so assumed. He would not falter, not buckle, and when she reached out to him as if to claim him back, his willpower—so damned strong as it was—allowed him to move away, to avoid that poisonous, debilitating touch. 

_Oh, how he wanted one last touch._

“I’m sorry… You can’t understand.”


End file.
